The Ironies of Gershwin

 There's a youtuber I love named Vlad Vexler. A Russian emigre to Britain roughly my age, a philosopher and musicologist whose most important subjects are Isaiah Berlin and Edwin Fischer - basically, me-bait. Most of his content at this point is about the Ukraine war, and he is unapologetically liberal in outlook. But he is unashamedly elitist (much too much so) in musical tastes. He declares with brazen self-assurance that there are 'four great pianists': Edwin Fischer, Cortot, Kempff, and Brendel. In one video he ripped Simon Rattle, whom he calls 'one of two great conductors working today' (Ivan Fischer), for wasting his time on 'third-rate music like Gershwin...'

Look. Forget Rhapsody in Blue, forget American in Paris and Porgy and Bess. The real Gershwin is not in what we hear with orchestras, the real Gershwin is the songs. There are literally hundreds and they're some of the greatest songs ever written.

When you hear Verdi and Puccini, the meaning of the arias is so earnest that it can't be mistaken, they are not only tied to specific situations, but they state their meaning so ardently that they cannot possibly mean anything but what they say they mean. To a lesser extent, Chopin is the same way and Rachmaninov is that way almost always.

But Gershwin... Gershwin is Mozart, Gershwin is Schubert, Gershwin is Faure and Bizet. It's music better than it can be performed (and it's usually performed badly). Contained within its ironies are an infinity of meanings. What is the 'fascinating rhythm?' Is it sex? Is it work? Is it illness? Is it anxiety? Is it motherhood? Whenever Ira Gershwin's lyrics state (all too often) 'who could ask for anything more', the truth is that the singer usually is asking for more, and through the music we can picture all the things being requested.

Jazz is, by its nature, a language of irony. If Jewish Klezmer music conceals happiness within minor key music, jazz generally conceals sadness within major key music. You hear those ambiguities permeating the immortal music of Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington, but Gershwin, who coded all sorts of Jewish melodies within his jazz *, was the American virtuoso of laughing through tears. Listen to those achingly long chromatic suspensions in 'The Man I Love", every sequence is practically its own opera of transitioning emotions - contentedness, heartbreak, anger, hope, sadness, acceptance, and sex moistening every chord all the way through.

I loathe, really loathe, these souped up easy listening orchestrations. Who can possibly find the challenge of this music within that bed of strings and deafening brass blare? But the fact is, Ella Fitzgerald is the Gershwin songbook. Within Ella's arch, barely noticeable ironies you can hear every drip of melancholy, celebration, and insincerity. Her singing defines 'similing through your tears.'

Those Jews among you sing 'It Ain't Necessarily So' to yourselves and then 'Baruch Atah Adonai' while chanting the Aliyah and ask yourselves...
But Not For Me